We were served noiselessly. A battalion of young lusty negroes, in blue jackets laced with silver, walked about barefooted under the command of the old major-domo. He, alone, had white silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles; his wide-skirted maroon velvet coat, with gold on the collar and cuffs, hung low about his thin shanks; and, with a long ebony staff in his hand, he directed the service from behind Don Balthasar’s chair. At times he bent towards his master’s ear. Don Balthasar answered with a murmur: and those two faces brought close together, one like a noble ivory carving, the other black with the mute pathos of the African faces, seemed to commune in a fellowship of age, of things far off, remembered, lived through together. There was something mysterious and touching in this violent contrast, toned down by the near approach to the tomb--the brotherhood of master and slave. At a given moment an enormous iron key was brought in on a silver salver, and, bending over the chair, the gray-headed negro laid it by Don Balthasar’s plate. “Don Carlos’ orders,” he muttered. The old Don seemed to wake up; a little colour mounted to his cheeks. “There was a time, young _caballero_, when the gates of Casa Riego stood open night and day to the griefs and poverty of the people, like the doors of a church--and as respected. But now it seems ...” He mumbled a little peevishly, but seemed to recollect himself. “The safety of his guest is like the breath of life to a Castilian,” he ended, with a benignant but attentive look at me. He rose, and we passed out through the double lines of the servants ranged from table to door. By the splash of the fountain, on a little round table between two chairs, stood a many-branched candlestick. The duenna sat down opposite Don Balthasar. A multitude of stars was suspended over the breathless peace of the court. “Señorita,” I began, mustering all my courage, and all my Spanish, “I do not know------” She was walking by my side with upright carriage and a nonchalant step, and shut her fan smartly. “Don Carlos himself had given me the dagger,” she said rapidly. The fan flew open; a touch of the wind fanning her person came faintly upon my cheek with a suggestion of delicate perfume. She noticed my confusion, and said, “Let us walk to the end, Señor.” The old man and the duenna had cards in their hands now. The intimate tone of her words ravished me into the seventh heaven. “Ah,” she said, when we were out of ear-shot, “I have the spirit of my house; but I am only a weak girl. We have taken this resolution because of your _hidal-guidad_, because you are our kinsman, because you are English. _Ay de mi!_ Would I had been a man. My father needs a son in his great, great age. Poor father! Poor Don Carlos!” There was the catch of a sob in the shadow of the end gallery. We turned back, and the undulation of her walk seemed to throw me into a state of exaltation.